As I lie down on the bed, I’m at exactly ninety degrees to the L-shape of the wall, the same wall that leads to the door, which is half open. On the edge of the half-open door, the half-wet bedsheets hang like loose, melting whipped cream. I lie in front of my desk wall. There were eight images on the wall, now removed, images of the women I adore. I take a sip of the tea, still warm. A single black slipper is on the floor. Single? Where is the odd one?
Oh, that lousy big beach bag. I remember that day now, arriving at the beach with only one slipper in my bag, my feet sore on the hot sand. I start thinking about the story of the slipper, how I came to buy it, how it came to be. I think about all the women with my shoe size who must have tried it on in the shop. My eyes are comfortably heavy. I take another sip of the chamomile tea with a drop of honey. Every time I take a sip, the teaspoon still resting in the cup makes a jingling sound. I know I have to go to bed now, otherwise it will be too late. I hate being sleepless; when it happens, it lasts for days. What I utterly dislike most is the panic of hours going by so fast after midnight while I’m still not calm enough to fall asleep, and every time I finally do, my feet keep jerking me awake.
Recently, my sleep has become a site of conversation. I’m literally negotiating, plotting, and arguing the story, the character, the specific moment I couldn’t figure out how to write. I find my answers in sleep, many ideas that arrive to me when I’m deep in my dreamtime. So why did I remove those images? It felt heavy to write under the gaze of those powerful, iconic women, as if I was measuring myself up against them, no longer a place of mere admiration and inspiration, but eight pairs of heavy eyes watching over my writing desk. I kept looking at the remains of the glue and the square shades on the wall, staring at them steadily until sleep met me halfway.